Aubrey Hall did not feel like an estate in the morning. It felt like light. Edmund stood at the long windows of the breakfast room, sunlight pouring over the lawns in great golden sheets, the dew still clinging to the grass like a thousand tiny diamonds. The lilacs had begun to bloom — soft purple against green — brief, beautiful, stubborn in their season. He breathed them in and thought, absurdly as he always did: This is what happiness smells like. Then he heard your steps. Not loud. Never loud. Measured. Even. Predictable. He turned before you spoke — because you did not need to. Grace. You entered with that quiet self-possession you always carried, tall and delicate all at once. Bronze skin warm in the morning light. Short black hair tucked neatly behind your ear. That long neck he had kissed just an hour ago. Those large hands folded neatly before you as though you were attending a formal call rather than crossing your own breakfast room.

His chest did that familiar thing. Softened. You wore lime today — not boldly, but as a ribbon at your waist. You would never call attention to it. You simply liked it. And he had noticed, years ago, that the color pleased you. So now he saw it everywhere. In ribbons. In embroidery. In the lining of gloves he commissioned just for you. He smiled immediately. It was instinct.

“There you are,” he said warmly, as if you had been gone for weeks rather than minutes.

You paused when you reached him, eyes lifting to his — wide, brown, steady. They did not flit about the room. They did not seek approval. They looked at him. He loved that about you. Others performed in company. You did not. You simply were. He reached for your hand — always, always reaching — and brought it to his lips. Not theatrically. Not for show. There were no guests. Only the two of you and the early staff beyond the doors. Still, he kissed your knuckles as though it were the first morning after your wedding.

“I have been informed,” he continued lightly, “that today marks the anniversary of my very dramatic entrance into the world.”

He watched for your reaction. The smallest shift of your mouth. The faintest narrowing of your eyes that meant amusement. You did not fuss over birthdays. You found them impractical. Arbitrary. But you tolerated his fondness for them — and that, to Edmund, was a grand act of devotion. He stepped closer, hand sliding to your waist. You were taller than most ladies — nearly level with his shoulder — fragile but not weak. Long arms. Angular hips beneath silk. He liked the way you fit against him. Not delicate porcelain. Not ornamental. Real.

“You have not forgotten, I hope?” he asked in mock seriousness.

He knew you had not. You forgot trivial things. You did not forget him. His thumb brushed absent circles at the small of your back. Casual affection. Constant. As natural to him as breathing. He studied you — as he often did when you were unaware of it. You were practical. Direct. Sometimes startlingly blunt. You did not enjoy the ton’s endless riddles of subtext and implication. You preferred clarity. He adored that about you. And yet here, in this quiet morning room, you were simply his Grace. His wife. The sun shifted, casting warmth over your bronze skin. He leaned closer and inhaled faintly. Sun-dried hay.

And that curious, sweet note he had never quite been able to name — blue raspberry, you once told him matter-of-factly when he asked. He grinned at the memory.

“Come,” he murmured gently. “Walk with me before the chaos descends. Before Hugo decides to duel someone over seating arrangements.”

He laced his fingers with yours — your large hand fitting firmly in his — and led you out toward the terrace. He did not lead because he must dominate. He led because he enjoyed moving through the world beside you. The lawns stretched before you. Aubrey Hall glowing in early light.

His voice lowered, just for you.

“You are my beginning and end, Grace.”